


Rare and Sweet

by 0hHeyThereBigBadWolf



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Arthur And Gwen Have An Actual Relationship Because Fuck You BBC, Communication, Destiny And Prophecy Are Not The Same Thing, Do Not Re-Post To Another Site, Elyan Is Alive Because Fuck You BBC, Feeling Salty Today, Good Mordred (Merlin), Healing, Just Talk To Each Other For God's Sake, Merlin Isn't A Bitter Paranoid Cynic Because FUCK YOU BBC, Poisoning, Prophecy Is Bullshit, Self-Indulgent, Use Your Words, physician Merlin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-14 04:34:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29412720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/0hHeyThereBigBadWolf/pseuds/0hHeyThereBigBadWolf
Summary: Mordred hates going to the feasts. It's hot and stuffy and crowded, and when dining with the nobility, there's always a chance someone will end up poisoned. He just hadn't quite expected it to be him. Or that it would lead to honest conversation with Emrys of all things.
Relationships: Merlin & Mordred (Merlin)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 170





	Rare and Sweet

Mordred hates feasts.

He _hates_ them. He does not care that it is the common thing here in Camelot, he does not care about the politics involved, he does not _care_. The food is always too rich and there is always too much wine and it is always hot and stuffy and crowded. He feels as though he’s being smothered, surrounded by so many people, and he hates that the Hall of Ceremony only has two doors and the windows don’t open and are all too high and…a stone deathtrap is what it is.

He hates the clothes too. When they are on rotation, they all have to wear their uniforms, of course, but when they aren’t, Arthur doesn’t much care if they go about in casual dress. Except on feast days. Because then they have to dress up, look all pretty and proper for the rest of the nobility.

Queen Guinevere is very kind, as she’d prevailed upon the castle tailors to have him outfitted with appropriate court attire so he would not look out of place at a table with the rest of the knights. He just hates that they’re simultaneously restricting and useless. He couldn’t draw a bow in brocade, he couldn’t climb a tree in silk, and he couldn’t march even half a league over good terrain in these _fine_ shoes.

He hates feasts.

Which is why he’s lurking in the corridor outside of the hall, resisting the urge to yank the collar of his tunic loose and take his boots off.

“Sir Mordred, the others are taking their seats,” says Lara, one of the serving girls, as she walks past him carrying a tray of cups.

“Thank you. Is that the wine?” he asks, straightening up from the wall.

“Yes. It’s from one of the casks Queen Mithian sent us for Yule—oh, Sir Mordred!” She takes an admonishing tone as he takes one of the cups and drains it in one, setting it back on the tray empty. Lara shakes her head, though a small smile tugs at the corners of her mouth. “You know you aren’t supposed to have that before the King tells us to serve.”

“Yes, I know, but if the King doesn’t want me to stab myself with my dinner knife, he’ll forgive me,” he replies. “And please stop calling me ‘Sir’ all the time. Just my name will do.”

Lara shakes her head, still smiling. “Go on and sit before you’re missed.”

He makes a face and goes.

The hall is crowded. And hot. And stuffy. He already feels short of breath.

The King and Queen look lovely, of course, but he thinks they always look lovely. They’re unfairly beautiful, the pair of them. And it certainly isn’t fair that Emrys is right there with them. He doesn’t have to wear formal dress, lucky bastard, but he doesn’t even need it. He is just like the royal couple—lovely in all forms. Unfair. Just…unfair.

Mordred takes his seat at the knights’ table, feeling sweat prickling under his collar already, stomach in uneasy knots.

“You look as though you’d rather have Gaius pulling your teeth out,” Elyan jests in an undertone, leaning closer to him.

“I think I would.”

“Come now, it’s not so bad,” Arthur says in a laughing tone. He is well familiar with Mordred’s avid dislike of feast days.

“All respect intended, sire, but you say the same thing when you put us through double training,” he replies, his mouth dry and his tongue feeling strangely thick. Gods, but it is hot in here. It isn’t even spring yet, there is no call for it to be this hot. Mordred reaches for his goblet, misjudges the distance, and knocks it over; somewhere inside, he winces.

"Mordred? What ails you?" Arthur asks, staring at him.

"Nothing. I'm, I'm fine." Dizzy, though. He slumps in his chair and lays his head down on the table. The wood underneath is hard, but the thick tablecloth is smooth and cool, and it is so very _hot_ in here. The wine leaves a red stain as it spreads and soaks into the linen.

There's a hand on his shoulder, shaking him. "Mordred? Mordred?" It is Emrys grasping at his shoulders and pulling him upright. The torches in the hall are so bright they blur. _[What did you eat?]_

_[Didn't. Wine.]_

_[Wine?]_ The world lurches as Emrys grabs the back of his chair and pulls it from the table. "No one touch the wine!" The hall has excellent acoustics; Emrys's voice _reverberates_.

Mordred feels like his head's ringing, too, especially as Emrys takes him by the arm and hoists him from his chair. He's vaguely aware of being led from the hall, legs lead-heavy and feet stumbling; there are voices, raised voices, echoing in the corridor, though he cannot discern words. A smell of herbs and parchment tells him he's been led into the physician's chamber, and he's deposited ungently onto the patient bed. A hand grips his chin and forces his mouth open; something bitter and earthy is poured into his mouth. Before he can spit it out, though, the hand clamps his jaw shut and holds it, holding his nose as well, giving him the option to swallow or choke.

The instant he does, however, he regrets it.

He hunches over the basin that is shoved into his lap, clutching it to him hard enough his fingers ache, trying not to fall off the bed as he empties his stomach of its contents. He supposes he ought to be grateful that he hadn't gotten around to actually eating anything yet, though the wine does look disconcertingly like blood.

As he's gasping in air between heaves, Emrys rests a hand on his back between his shoulder blades. _"Āwrec ator,"_ he murmurs, too low for anyone else to hear.

Mordred feels a bare second of relief as Emrys's magic breathes through him, cool and liquid and silvery, but then it's gone as his stomach rebels against him once more, though he's bringing up little more than bile now. "What—the hell—was that?" he coughs out once the retching finally stops.

"Rinse." Emrys holds out a cup of water. "And that was Gaius's best emetic. I've taken to keeping a vial or two of it with me."

He rinses the foul taste from his mouth with the water, spitting into the basin. "It's foul."

"That is the point." Emrys wrinkles his nose, taking the basin from Mordred's lap. _"Gedrysnian,"_ he mutters and sets it aside. "Lay down. It'll make you dizzy if it hasn't already, and I don't need you splitting your head open by falling on your face. Now, how is it you got to the wine before the rest of us?"

Mordred pulls his legs up onto the small bed and lays back. Dizzy is certainly the word. The world feels as though it's being spun on a wheel axle. His head is throbbing, a steady, pounding ache behind his eyes, and his throat is stinging-raw. "Feasts make me nervous. So many people in a closed hall. I stopped a servant in the hall before they brought out the first course, asked for the wine," he mumbles, casting an arm over his closed eyes. It doesn't stop the spinning, but it helps it to not be so absolutely disorienting. He tries to focus on the sound of Emrys instead, the soft clinking of glass and the sound of liquid being poured, the whisper of fabric.

"Well, it is a good thing the celebrations make you nervous, then." Emrys sinks down to sit on the edge of the bed beside Mordred's hip, and he opens one eye, peering out from beneath his arm. "Half the banquet hall could've been in here." He reaches out and smooths Mordred's hair back, resting the back of his hand against his brow. Mordred gives a low sigh and tilts his head into the touch, cool and rough on his fevered skin, and it's the last thing he remembers for a while.

When he wakes up, it is still night, or maybe night again. The physician's chamber is half-lit by a low fire in the hearth, and Emrys is sitting at one of the worktables, grinding herbs with a mortar and pestle, sleeves rolled back and scarf removed. "Where is Gaius?" he asks, coughing. His throat is still painfully raw.

Emrys looks up at the sound of his voice and stands, pouring something from a kettle into a cup. "He's investigating the wine with the King, to see what poison was used."

"What—what happened with the wine?"

"Stop talking and drink this."

He has to hold the cup Emrys gives him with both hands, though the liquid inside still ripples for his shaking. It smells faintly herbal and strongly honeyed, and he suspects it's for his throat. _[Thank you, Emrys.]_ Well, he isn't speaking.

Emrys doesn't answer, but Mordred sees him dip his chin in a small nod, returning to the table and continuing his work at the mortar and pestle.

_[What happened with the wine? I thought our relations with Nemeth were good.]_

Emrys nods. _[Better than they have been for years. It wasn't Mithian. She sent Arthur a letter before the wine arrived, listing what she'd sent. I told Arthur he should have someone recount them, and there was an extra barrel. Someone else probably intercepted the wagon on the way here, added the poisoned keg to the lot, and left it at that. Probably thought all they would have to do is wait and Nemeth would take the blame once it was served.]_

Mordred nods, sipping from the cup slowly. It's tea. Strong, but only tea. _[Who do you think it was?]_

The pestle grinds in the mortar, a soft crunching that somehow reminds Mordred of walking on sand; it's soothing, reminding him of memories in the temple with his mother. _[Deorham and Essetir are most likely, they share borders with both Camelot and Nemeth, but if I had to wager, I would say it was Alined.]_

_[Why him above Lot?]_

The grinding stops, and Emrys levels a long look at him.

_[I know you are not fond of me, but I am going to be here all night, Emrys. Would you rather we sit in silence until I send for more wine?]_

Emrys snorts, then catches himself, tilting the mortar to carefully scrape out the powdered herbs into a small pouch. _[Lot is a bastard, but he is a blunt bastard. I met him once, after he came into Essetir's throne. Arthur tried to make peace with the man. It…didn't exactly go well. We aren't at war, but we certainly shan't be sending each other Yule gifts. Anyways. He believes poison is the tool of a coward, the so-called woman's weapon. If Lot wanted to kill Arthur, he'd send an assassin to stick a knife in his ribs. Alined, however, has tried before to incite war by playing two kingdoms off each other.]_

_[I see.]_ He drains the last of the tea, mostly just excess honey at the bottom of the cup, and leans over to set it on the clearest surface he can find—a stack of books on a stool. Lying back down, he untangles the blanket and pulls it over himself up to his chin, looking across the way at Emrys. _[What is that you're preparing?]_

_[Mordred, go to sleep.]_

_[I've slept enough.]_

_[Not really. It's only been an hour.]_

He shrugs one shoulder. _[I'm awake now.]_

_[Yes, and you do not need to be. Go to sleep.]_ Emrys's tone takes an edge.

Mordred is quiet a moment, rubbing the edge of the blanket against his jaw. The wool is thick and undyed, a little scratchy, but it's warm, and it has the same herbal smell as the rest of the chamber, along with a scent of soap to suggest it's been washed in strong lye. "Why do you hate me?"

The pestle halts. There is only the faint sound of snapping wood in the fire. Mordred can hear his own pulse in his ears, thick and heavy. “I don’t hate you,” Emrys says at last, resuming his work.

“You certainly do not like me.”

“Mordred.”

“Whatever I’ve done to displease you, I’m sorry.”

Emrys huffs and sets down the pestle, turning slightly on the stool to stare at him. It’s strange. From here, in this light, his eyes do not look blue, but some deep hue of violet. “You’ve done nothing. It isn’t…easily explained,” he replies.

Mordred tries to summon a smile. “I’ve plenty of time.”

He’s silent for a long time, long enough Mordred isn’t certain he’ll answer at all, but then he rises from the worktable and crosses the chamber. From his prone position, Emrys is as tall as the west tower and as intimidating as a firestorm. Magic breathes off him as fog from the sea. To Mordred, his power feels like fog as well, something cool and silvery and intangible, all-encompassing. Most sorcerers can exude power like that, but only with concentrated effort, a tactic meant to intimidate. Emrys isn’t making any effort at all, however, which is almost more frightening.

“Do you want me to tell you?” Emrys asks. “Do you truly? Think on your answer carefully. You cannot unring the bell once you hear it.”

Mordred swallows hard, forcing down the woolen dryness in his throat. “Yes.”

Emrys sinks down to sit on the edge of the patient bed beside him. This close, Mordred can feel the heat of his body, even through the blanket. He need only shift his legs to have his knees touching the small of Emrys’s back. “Tell me. What do you think of prophecy?”

That isn’t how he imagined this conversation would begin. “I think we are all subject to the fates, but we act as though we aren’t, lest we get swallowed by despair. And prophecy is our own way of trying to guess what they will have of us.”

“You think it is infallible, then?”

“No. Destiny is woven by the fates. _They_ are infallible. Prophecy is spoken by mortals, and we are very fallible.”

A corner of Emrys’s mouth lifts. “Such wisdom from one so young.” He shifts slightly, moving to sit more comfortably on the bed. Now his back is pressed along one of Mordred’s thighs, making him flush slightly with warmth. “Then I’ll tell you the prophecy of the Once and Future King and how he is meant to die,” he says softly, “and then…and then we can see how fallible prophecy is.”


End file.
